Fight for a Silver Lining
by ChasingPerfectionTomorrow
Summary: After the death of half their family in a tragic accident, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are left to pick up the pieces. Can they find a way to a silver lining or will outside forces destroy everything they have left? AU modern. Eventual Jon/Sansa.
1. Prologue

**A/N**: I hope I'm not the only person who's having formatting issues, so please excuse the clutter of this submission. was being weird. Any who, not sure where this is going but this little plot bunny has been eating my brain for a few days so I had to get it out. I need whats left of my brain, such as it is.

**Summary**: After the death of half their family in a tragic accident, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are left to pick up the pieces. Can they find a way to a silver lining or will outside forces destroy everything they have left? AU modern. Eventual Jon/Sansa.

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

They won't let him in. He's not technically family, after all. He sits in the Emergency Waiting Room, staring down at his hands while his ears buzz and his heart thunders. It has to be a dream, just a bad dream. His fingers clench and unclench. He can't feel them. He can't feel anything.

The room around him is a flurry of activity and he is numb and deaf to all of it. The image of Bran's small, bloody form being wheeled through a door he couldn't follow through plays in his mind on repeat. Over and over and over again like a bad song. He grows sicker with worry, fear, and grief with every passing moment. His head dips forward into his hands and his fingers grip his hair -too long, Cat Stark would say- so hard his scalp burns. He's never felt so helpless.

* * *

Sansa almost doesn't see him, she's overwhelmed with fear and worry, but she glances left and catches sight of a familiar, dark head bowed in defeat amongst a sea of strangers. Her heart jumps and then plummets. _Jon_, her mind breaths in terror and relief; her oldest brother's best friend, the boy who'd come to live with them when she was five years old after his own mother had died tragically. A drug overdose, her parents had whispered at night when they'd thought all the children were asleep. The boy she's spent most of her life ignoring, sneering at, and he stands out now like a beacon of hope, a light house through a stormy sea and she is drawn to him as though he is a warm fire in a winter storm.

"Jon," she mummers and he doesn't look up. She touches her hand to the crown of his head, where his ebony curls, unkempt but shinny, spring outward. He flinches and looks up. His dark eyes are hollow and there are tears on his cheeks. Sansa can feel true panic clawing up her throat. Solemn, serious Jon doesn't cry, not even as a child. Not even when his mom died.

"Sansa," he says, dreamlike, voice cracking and he grips her hand roughly in his as if she, too, is a life line. Sansa can't remember the last time they had touched with any level of familiarity.

"Where-" she chokes. _Where are they? Where is my family?_ She can't find the words, she can't find her voice. She doesn't have to, Jon understands. He jerks her across the room to the harried looking Nurse and speaks to her in a frantic voice. They try to leave Jon behind but she clings to him for dear life. God help her, she can't go through those doors without him. She can't face whatever lies beyond them alone.

"I'm sorry dear, family only-"

"He's my brother," Sansa half screams at her and the woman cows in the face of her grief ridden fury. Jon twists his sweaty hand in hers, their fingers linking, and they step through the doors together like two lost souls. It's the first time she's ever referred to him as her brother.

* * *

Bran hasn't spoken since the accident, a week ago. Sansa glances at him as she readies his wheelchair. He's been dressed, with the help of the nursing staff, in a fine black suit, his hair combed to the side, and he lies staring dully up at the ceiling. They assure her that it's nothing permanent; it's just shock and grief that has turned her once energetic brother into a listless mute. She wishes she could take comfort in such knowledge, but she has no idea how to reach her little brother. Sansa swallows at the ever present lump in her throat as her sleep deprived head pounds through a headache that won't go away. She can hear Arya and Jon just outside the door, but their words are muffled and soft. Jon has always been better with Arya, better than she could ever hope to be, and it is him, not Sansa, her younger sister leans on for support now. She knows she shouldn't feel relieved, but her sanity dangles by a thread and she feels ready to shatter at a moment's notice.

A friend had brought her a modest black dress and heels and she'd taken her first shower in days. She's applied no makeup and her red hair is pulled back in a pony tail. She could care less what she looks like, now or ever again.

"Alright Bran, time to get in the chair."

He doesn't move, not a twitch and she sucks in a harsh breath.

"Please Bran, we're…" her voice hitches and she takes a moment to gather herself, "We're going to be late." _For the funeral. We don't want to miss them burying Mom, Dad, Rob, Jeyne and our little baby niece, do we?_

She must have made some sort of noise because Jon is there suddenly and he's got his arms around her and she's sobbing into his chest. She's endlessly crying, she knows that, she needs to be strong, like Jon, who hasn't cried since that awful night in the waiting room, but she's not strong. She's not strong at all.

Arya is half yanking Bran into sitting position. Her little sister seems to be handling her grief with anger. Rickon, tiny, sweet Rickon stands between them all in horrified confusion. Jon moves carefully away from her, looking at her with questioning concern. _I'm alright, I'm just useless._ He hurries to berate Arya and help get Bran into the wheelchair as Sansa finds herself standing there, unable to move, to help, to do anything but cry silently as Rickon stares up at her with wide, helpless eyes the same colors as their mother's, as hers.

* * *

Jon stands at the foot of the Ned Starks grave as the service men fire violent shots into the sky. He flinches through each rifle shot. The Starks are –were?—a very prominent and wealthy family and it feels as though half of DC is present. Influential, finely dressed, intensely wealthy people surround he, and what's left of his broken family, on all sides. He feels like a sheep amongst wolves. This isn't his world, this will never _be_ his world. He's had his picture taken so many times over the past week he feels half blind from the flash of invasive bulbs. Thankfully, the Starks don't lack lawyers and press agents to handle all the questions; he doesn't think he could answer any of them, anyway. His main and only concern has been protecting what's left of his family. Damn the rest. It's what Ned Stark, the only man he'd ever considered a father, would have wanted.

Sansa stands to his left, Rickon between them, grasping each of their hands tightly between his tiny fingers. She's not crying for the first time in days, she barely appears to be breathing. Her face, lovely as ever, is pale and withdrawn and her normally bright blue eyes are dull and all but lifeless. He hasn't seen her since Thanksgiving, almost six months ago. She moved away to college last year to some fancy designer school in New York. She looks far older than her eighteen years and there is no sign of the bright, talkative socialite he'd come to equate with his almost-sister. Arya, brave, smart, feisty Arya, stands so still she might be a statue and her eyes are trained on her father's steadily diminishing coffin. Tear tracks, silent and broken, trace her still childish features. It was her fourteenth birthday just a few months prior. Jon has never seen Arya cry. Ever. He puts his arm around her and she leans against him. But she never takes her intense, gray eyes off her father.

Bran, poor, broken Bran, sits beside Sansa with his father's flag in its hard wood case clutched against his chest. He is sobbing in great heaving gasps. Sansa is rubbing his back and neck in mindless circles. But he knows as well as she that there is nothing either of them can do to ease this pain, to lessen this loss. God, Bran, poor fucking Bran. The doctors told them, he and Sansa, two days after the accident that the chances of Bran walking again were slim to none. They hadn't had any tears left as they stared down at their unconscious brother, wondering how many more terrible things awaited them as time passed.

How could this have happened? The world seems tilted, upside down and completely insane. He feels like throwing up when they lower Rob's coffin, his best friend, so burned and mangled in the crash that they hadn't been allowed to view his body. They burry Rob's baby, sweet, adorable Anna, with his wife Jenye. Jenye who always made extra brownies –even though they came out of a box—for him whenever he came to visit. Who was wiry and smart as a whip and made his closest friend and brother insanely happy. He'd been jealous of their marriage on more than one occasion.

_And_ _now they're gone. I wish to God it could have been me, it should have been me. They asked me to drive them and I said I couldn't, I had plans, I had classes to attend. It's all my fault. _It's a mantra in his head and it kills him a little more each time.

The rest of the funeral goes by in a blur of eulogies given by people he doesn't really know until it's finally over. They're trapped within a prison of commiserates and well wishers and Jon nearly manages to break them free when Jamie Lannister appears through the sea of black, his twin, Cersei, at his heels. They're all golden hair, sanguine features and vibrant blue eyes. Cersei's son, Joffery –Sansa's mysteriously absent boyfriend—trails reluctantly behind them. Jon hates the little prick and so does –did—Rob. Pretentious, spoiled little fuck. The sight of him here makes Jon bristle, but he's distracted by Jamie.

"Damn, I don't know what to say. We're so incredibly sorry for your loss. I've been told the Will is to be read tomorrow, please, let me know if you need anything." The older man says, dressed in a very fine designer suit, his hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes seem sincere but Jon has never liked the Lannisters, business partners with the Starks. There is something seriously… fishy about them. Ever since Robert, Ned's closest friend and Cersei's husband died of a supposed heart attack, Ned hadn't trusted them quite as much either. Too many secrets, too many games. Things Jon has never understood, has never wanted to understand.

Cersei is hugging a stiff Sansa followed by an even more reluctant Arya. She dabs her made up, leaking eyes with a sparse tissue and he can't help but wonder if her tears are genuine. Jon knows Cersei never really liked the Starks.

Jon merely nods, "Thank you. If you'll excuse us, we need to get back to the house." They've been forced into holding a funeral reception, the thought of which makes Jon want to pack up his broken family and run for the hills if only to spare them more false smiles and disingenuous apologies.

"Of course," Jamie says sadly and they step past him, the five remaining Starks. Jon doesn't bother to glance at Joffery and neither does Sansa. Jon wonders if they've broken up but this thought is pushed aside by Rickon tugging on his hand as Arya slides into the limo.

"We can't leave Ma, Da and Rob, Jon. We have to wait," he says in earnest. Jon feels the breath rattle in his chest as he bends and picks the little boy up. He's getting heavy, he'll be too big to carry around soon.

"They're not coming with us Rickon… they have to stay here," he says softly, brokenly. He doesn't know what to say to his youngest sibling, but he doesn't think he should lie. Not now. He meets Sansa's eyes as the driver helps her ease Bran into the car. He sees only death in her gaze and he looks away before he starts to cry.


	2. All the Broken Pieces

**A/N: **Hey look, another chapter. The plot bunny keeps munching. Reviews are lovely and so are you.

**Disclaimer: **Oh, I don't own the book or movie series and even though G.R.R. Martin is a jealous man, I hope he won't mind my little fanfiction endeavor TOO much.

Some mild cursing in this chapter (I guess a bit in the last one too) so if a few 'f' bombs bother thee, I suggest you skip over this haphazard ficlet.

* * *

**Chapter One: All the Broken Pieces**

_Happiness is just outside my window_  
_Would it crash blowing 80-miles an hour?_  
_Or is happiness a little more like knocking_  
_On your door, and you just let it in?_

_Happiness feels a lot like sorrow_  
_Let it be, you can't make it come or go_  
_But you are gone- not for good but for now_  
_Gone for now feels a lot like gone for good_

* * *

_Three years later…_

Sansa meets her best friend, Margaery, for drinks after a very long day at work. The sun is just starting to set and the New York City night life is beginning to stir. She's tired, bone tired, with a pressure behind her eyelids threatening to explode. But she needs a drink. She _really_ needs a drink. Wrapping her arms around herself, she presses her shoulders up against her ears to block out the chill of the City in November. The bar, trendy and small, is just around the corner from the office building where she makes a modest amount of money as the personal assistant to one of the lesser fashion editors for a respectable fashion magazine. It's a lot of work, but hasn't cut into her school work _too_ terribly. That's all about to change, of course. Time is not going to be her friend for very much longer.

She enjoys the chill in the air, she admits, as her heels clack against filthy pavement. It reminds her of home, of winters spent in a cozy cabin in Connecticut where she, and her family, sat around a table laughing and playing card games until the youngest ones are falling asleep in their chairs. It reminds her of a time when she didn't have a festering wound in her heart that she'd never managed to heal, only to hide.

After a brisk walk, she breezes inside the bar and lets out a sigh of relief against the welcoming warmth. A slight, smiling girl, about her age, gathers her coat and scarf and sets them on a coat rack shaped like a massive tree. She spots Marg across the bar, at the very end, half concealed in shadows. She offers a slight wave, thanks the girl, and makes her way over to where her beautiful friend already has men lingering in the background, readying themselves to make a move. Sansa hopes she looks sufficiently bitchy and tired enough to keep them at bay. She's not in the mood, she never is these days.

One of her favorite songs warbles through the speakers above and a hipster looking kid with thick glasses and a lopsided beanie gives her a nod from behind the bar. He's cute, in a 'trying too hard' kind of way and he exudes laid back coolness. She can feel the tension draining from between her shoulder blades as The Fray sings to her about the fleeting, impermanent nature of happiness.

Sansa flops into the bar stool next to her friend, letting her purse plop on the bar next to her and says, "Makers and coke, please," to the expectant bartender. It's still a little weird, ordering drinks in a public bar without the niggling fear that the bartender will know her fake ID is… fake. Adulthood, she thinks, that's what legal drinks taste like.

"Hey girl," Marg says with a tip of her own drink, some sort of sophisticated martini, "Straight for the whiskey tonight, eh?" Her rich, chestnut hair is curled expertly down her back and she's wearing a tight knit blue dress, the same deep color as her eyes, and tights with calf high boots. Her makeup is subtle but alluring and, as always, she smells faintly of roses. Her friend makes her feel about as put together as a child's Popsicle stick art project. Messy hair, wrinkled pencil skirt and button up white blouse with plain heels.

Sansa offers a grumbling laugh as her drink slides into her waiting hand and she takes a grateful swallow. "It's been a very long week."

"You do look vaguely like shit," Marg says with a teasing wink. Sansa rolls her eyes.

"Such a good friend, so glad I came out tonight instead of taking a hot bath and watching Gossip Girl reruns."

Marg laughs and finishes off her martini, motioning for another, "Oh come on. It's your last night of freedom, of course you had to come out."

Sansa sighs, stirring her drink absently, "Don't remind me." I'm not ready for this, she thinks quietly to herself, taking another long drink. The whiskey tingles against the back of her throat and warms her empty belly. When was the last time she ate? This morning? Last night? The pain in her head lessens, and that's really all that matters.

"They're supposed to be here what, tomorrow morning?"

Sansa nods into her drink, aiming for nonchalance, "That's the plan, yeah."

Marg looks down and plays with the olive in her own drink, "I don't mean to be… unsupportive, but, are you sure this is such a great idea?"

No, I'm not, she says internally, out loud she says, "Jon has been handling stuff on his own for long enough… and you know about all the problems Arya's been having in school and Bran still isn't himself. He… he needs help and I'm their sister, I should help, I should have offered more of my help from the beginning." Her voice is bitter and her friend reaches out squeezes her hand.

"Hey… that was a hard time for all of you, you can't keep blaming yourself-"

"I should have moved back or something, leaving Jon to deal with all of that was the easy way out and now… now I have no idea what to do."

Marg sighs, this is an argument they've had a dozen times over the past few years. "So, Jon really means to try and step up into your father's business? Take over the company?"

Sansa shrugs, "I guess that's the plan."

"Aaaand, you're totally okay with that. I mean, I'm not trying to sound like a bitch or anything, but he's not _actually _your brother."

He's been more of a brother to my siblings than I have been a sister, she muses, but says, "It is a little… strange I guess, but you know dad always loved Jon like a real son, and if not him, then who? I sure as hell don't want it and it's not like Bran or Arya are set to take over."

"True but, didn't he go to school for like, History or English?"

"Yeah, History. I think he wanted to be a curator or something." Not exactly glorious or profitable but Jon had never been the sort of guy to put a lot of importance on money or appearances. Slow to smile, slow to offer his opinion, always kind, always understanding- good old Jon, her father used to say. Her mother had never taken to him entirely, but Sansa thinks she understands why now, why their father taking such an interest in the son of one of one of his employees would eat at her. After all, there is a chance that Jon is, actually, her half brother.

"That's not exactly the sort of degree that helps someone run a high profile, billion dollar industry," Marg remarks dryly and Sansa shrugs again. Her drink is empty and she needs another. She smiles at the bartender in the way she knows gets her what she wants –she's a little tipsy at this point—and he quickly makes her another. His answering smile has a knowing, expectant quality that has her instinctually looking up at him through her eyelashes. If the business world has taught her anything, it's that the only way to be taken seriously, in most cases, is to utilize those qualities she was fortunate enough to be born with.

"I guess he's been working with Tyrion Lannister a lot," Sansa says, returning to the conversation at hand. More people have filed into the bar and music has grown louder, the dim mood lighting set for a sort of 'romantic' quality that Sansa finds absurd.

Marg snorts loudly, nearly spilling her drink, "You mean the midget?"

Sansa smiles a little and flushes. "Yeah, but dad always said he was the smartest businessman in his family. Dad didn't really like any of the Lannisters, but he tolerated Tyrion better than the rest. Jon seems to like him, not sure if he trusts him though, if he trusts anyone." He certainly doesn't trust me, her mind supplies bitterly and her heart aches for a moment before she carefully places the emotion aside.

"Speaking of the Lannisters," Marg says and her tone immediately sets her on the defensive, "Heard from Joff lately?"

Sansa feels herself go stiff. She doesn't want to talk about Joff. "No, and I'm glad."

Marg, sensing her mood, nudges her playfully, "Hey, don't act like that, I'm happy if you're happy."

Sansa mentally forces herself to relax, berating herself for letting her emotions get the better of her and blaming it on the smooth whiskey. "Yeah, I know, sorry. Just glad it's over and he's gone. I should have broken things off years ago." Before half my family died, she considers with another twist of the knife in her heart.

"Come on, no more depressing talk, finish your drink and we're going to that dance club that just opened."

Sansa groans, "Come on Marg, I'm tired and I look like shit."

Marg merely rolls her eyes in a show of affectionate understanding, "Lucky for you have I spare dress and a pair of super cute of heels in the car. And, no offense, some make up wouldn't kill you."

"Who has time to put on makeup?" She grumbles, somewhat embarrassed.

"You're starting to sound like a crazy cat lady already."

"Ugh, if I go will you stop picking on me?"

Marg beams widely, lighting up her pretty face with obvious victory, "Deal!"

Sansa groans into her glass, telling herself she will _not_ be out all night. Tomorrow, for better or for worse, is a big day. Tomorrow the remains of her broken family are moving into the City for a much needed fresh start. If only she didn't feel like a stranger to them.

* * *

The huge house is silent and dark as Jon, Theon, and Sam recline against a recently barren wall in the large foyer of the Stark house, weary legs stretched out before them after a long day of moving and lifting. It's the only home Jon's ever really known, even if it's grander than anything he would have considered for himself. To have it so empty, so void of sound and light, reminds him painfully of events he'd rather forget. This house had once been a bright, warm beacon against the harshness of the world, now it's full of ghosts and shadows. It hurts him to leave, but he can't lie and says he's not glad to put so many reminders of the past behind him. Maybe he and the kids can finally move on. God knows they need it.

"Can't believe you're really doing this," Theon remarks for the thousandth time that day, popping his beer open with a bottle opener on his key chain. It's shaped liked a curvaceous, naked lady and Jon thinks it's very tacky. Sam takes it obligingly as they all open frosty bottles; the twelve-pack of Sam Adams sits between them like another friend. Jon doesn't usually drink, ever, but tonight feels like the right occasion.

Arya, Bran, Rickon and Marsha, –Bran's live in nurse—are asleep, bundled up like a litter of puppies, in the adjacent living room. They'd wanted to spend their last night in DC in their home, camping out, instead of a hotel room. Jon understands the feeling completely. Even Arya had been obliging, which was almost unheard of with her these days.

"I think it's a good idea," Sam offers with his usual supportive, somewhat uncertain, smile. Theon rolls his eyes dramatically behind him and takes a long gulp, draining half his bottle with a satisfied slap of his lips. Jon sips his own beer with a little more decorum. The taste of beer reminds him of his first few years in college, when things had been simpler and the world full of promise. When his best friend and father had still been alive and they'd gathered together on the massive porch outback to sip a few during school breaks.

"Considering Arya's been kicked out of _another_ school, figured now was a good a time as any to get a new start," he says rubbing at one sore bicep. Arya, man, he just didn't know what to do for her anymore.

"Tyrion pushed you into it, didn't he?" Theon presses, smirking as usual. Theon had always been more Rob's friend then his, but in the aftermath of his sudden death, they'd formed an unlikely trio. And, Jon could admit, despite his flamboyant cockiness and less than helpful attitude, Theon was a good friend. Most of the time; plus, they'd been together since they were kids. They'd even attended the same University.

"I think Sansa has more to do with it," Sam remarks and Jon has to forcibly keep himself from flinching. His wayward sister –its, hard to think of her that way, they've rarely ever acted like siblings—is a sore subject for him. He worries about her and often feels like her distance is a reflection of some personal failure. He's sure she blames him for the Will. He tried to offer it to her, the company he didn't want, but she flat out refused. And then she'd all but disappeared for three years save for the occasional phone call and brief holiday visit.

Jon puffs out a sigh, "I'm worried about her, if that's what you mean. And I'm glad she wants to be more involved, I think it might help. I'm doing a pretty piss poor job on my own." Sam pats his shoulder in sympathetic support. Good old Sam. Always the last one picked, always the DD in college, but Jon couldn't have asked for a better friend over the last few years.

"Doesn't hurt that she's completely banging," Theon teases and Sam glares, his head snapping so hard in his direction that his double chins jiggle.

"Don't be gross, dude, that's his sister-"

"Except not at all. And we all know Jon has a thing for red heads."

Sam makes a disgusted noise, "Close enough, I mean they were raised together, how would you like it if he talked about _your_ sister like that?"

Theon snorts, "My sisters all look like the ass end of a dog, bro, so the point is mute."

"Enough," Jon says firmly and they quiet. "I'll just be glad to be out of here." He doesn't like the way Theon talks about Sansa but he's frankly too tired to make a big deal out of it.

Theon sighs, cradling his beer between his legs, head set back against the wall. "Yeah, this place does sort of feel like a tomb sometimes."

You don't know the half of it, Jon thinks, staring out the glossed window across from him, the moonlight painting silvery patterns on the wood floors. His heart feels too big in his chest.

"So you're really going to do it, take over Mr. Stark's business?" Sam asks after several long moments of comfortable silence. Theon is already on his third beer and Jon's barely halfway through his first.

Jon shrugs, embarrassed and the coil of uncertainty that has been tightening over the past few months, winds tighter. "Well, I guess, I'm gonna try anyway. Tyrion's gonna do a lot of the leg work for awhile"

Theon clicks his tongue, speaking over a put-off Sam, "I still don't know how you can trust that little Lannister fuck. That whole family is nuts, you've heard the rumors about how Jamie and Cersei have been fucking for years, right? I can only imagine what that little prick gets involved in."

Sam sputters into his beer and, coughing, wipes his hand on the back of his sweaty arm. "That's disgusting," he manages to wheeze. Theon sneers.

"Tyrion's alright, he's a hell of a lot better than his brother, anyway. And Ned liked him well enough, even Cat tolerated him."

"And she barely tolerated _you_," Theon adds with a depreciating chuckle. Jon hates that his words, however true, still sting.

"You're such an ass," Sam says and the other man merely salutes him with his beer before draining it.

More comfortable silence and Jon allows himself another beer. He can hear Rickon's snores ricocheting through an empty house suddenly too big and too empty. It makes him anxious, like he's dangling off the precipice of something and he just wants to jump and get it over with. He sighs, long and deep, letting his head fall back as he stares up through a spiral stair case.

"Thanks for doing this guys, helping me pack up and move," he says eventually.

"Of course man, anything," Sam says immediately.

"Yeah yeah, you owe me," supplies Theon and even Jon has to chuckle a little at how stereotypical his response is.

He closes his eyes. _God, I hope I'm doing the right thing Dad, I'm trying to keep them all together, I swear. You'd know what to do, you always did. I miss you, I miss Rob, and I'm sorry for fucking everything up. _

"Come on," Theon says, "Let's go out back, this place is creeping me out."

"Yeah," Jon agrees, and they take the beer with them. He could use some fresh air, the ghosts are pressing in on him.

* * *

Jamie braces his hand on the balcony overlooking Central Park as his twin steps up and sensually slides her arms around him from behind. He leans into her with a sigh, some of the tension draining from his shoulders.

"Relax," she mummers, standing on tip toe to whisper hotly against his neck. "That like bastard won't last a day here, soon, he'll be begging you to take over the company. As for Tyrion, well, I doubt our father will be _quiet_ so forgiving this time around."

Jamie snorts, pressing one of his hands over hers, "And what about the rest of them? Sansa, for instance."

Cersei laughs cruelly, "Please, that girl? A weakling and a simpleton. She barely cares about her family, let alone the business her daddy built."

Jamie sighs and turns in her losened grasp to lift her forcibly against him with one rough yank of his arm about her waist, "How do you do that?"

"Do what?" She asks in a knowing, husky whisper as her hand crawls up his back.

"Make me feel at ease. I can almost believe it, that it will all be ours-"

"It _will_ be," she insists, her lips mere inches from his, "so long as you do exactly as I say, dear brother."

He grins and it's predatory, "Always."

* * *

**Next chapter:**

Sansa drinks too much and wakes up too late.

Jon deals with a pack of unruly, uncooperative kids.

A broken family is reunited and it's pretty obvious there won't be smooth sailing.

Jon and Sansa aren't quite sure what to make of each other.

Tyrion… is Tyrion.

Writing creepy twin incest... is creepy.


End file.
